


laisse-moi tempêter, j'ai trop des tristes pensés

by rokklagio



Series: Nemesis [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: M/M, courfeyrac is oblivious, mentions of first love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:16:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rokklagio/pseuds/rokklagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Same night from a completely different point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	laisse-moi tempêter, j'ai trop des tristes pensés

**Author's Note:**

> follows up from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1117808).

 

 

 

The kitchen was just as tiny as the rest of Bahorel’s apartment, and perhaps the emptiest of the rooms. It wasn’t very hard to spot Combeferre among the half-empty Dorito bags and wine-red plastic cups - Enjolras couldn’t help wrinkling his nose before the unnecessary mess - and helped him gather all the dirty plates left on the cupboard.

The silence was almost inhuman, since the entire apartment was still shaking with music blasted at full volume. It surely changed during the night, starting with things like Stromae and ending up with Jefferson Airplane erupting from Bossuet’s iPod.

Music was the only thing Enjolras actually appreciated out of their parties, since he didn’t really like drinking and dancing. Not that they danced so often - mind you - but it was either drinking or making a fool of yourself in front of everyone, so their different music tastes weren't an issue at all.

“I think they’re going to put Noir Désir next.” Combeferre kept on pushing their leftovers down the bin (scarily packed by now) so Enjolras decided to go looking for a new plastic bag.

“Don’t really care” he mumbled (it was quite depressing choosing not to listen to your favourite band anymore because it suddenly clashed with your moral views when you were still a teenager). He preferred to stay in the kitchen anyway: he didn’t want to share the same room as that drunken shithead of a friend (was Grantaire really his friend anyway?).

Grantaire wasn’t the only one drunk, he reckoned, when Combeferre shot him a puzzled look.

“Did I say that out loud?” he asked, honestly ashamed.

“Why are you so harsh on ‘Taire?”

Was he really harsh anyway? He knew he had never been clement with the artist, but he didn’t see why he had to act sweet around him. Should he? He tried to sit down and avoid Combeferre’s glare as his head started to spin. He didn't know whether the fault was on the loud music or the wine, but he really hoped not to throw up on Bahorel's carpet. Their friend had been nice enough to host everyone in his microscopic flat.

“I don’t care for Grantaire.” - which wasn’t a lie. If the drunken bastard was going to throw his life down one of Bahorel’s brandy bottles and fool around with the whole arrondissement trying to catch gonorrhea then he was more than welcome to destroy his life without Enjolras judging.

Combeferre laughed. “Too much rage on someone you don’t really care about, don’t you think?”

This time he didn’t know whether he said his thoughts out loud or Combeferre simply knew him so well to imagine what he was thinking, but he didn’t answer - he didn’t feel like answer (and he wasn’t sure he knew what to answer) but it didn’t really matter, because Combeferre moved closer and reached for his forehead.

And it was his high school days all over again.

“Does it still hurt?”

His fingers pressed lightly on the plaster above his left eyebrow and made sure that the sides still stuck firmly on the white skin. It was Combeferre who took care of his scratch (while arguing that it could have been a pretty serious wound if it wasn’t cleaned and treated as soon as possible, and Enjolras had to comply with that in religious silence) but avoided any kind of fight regarding his behaviour towards Grantaire (which wasn’t nothing new, he called him worse before, so there was little to talk about).

"No, it doesn't hurt and it didn't hurt before. You're with Grantaire on this one, huh?"

But there was more in it than Enjolras was willing to let out. The hands touching him belonged to the boy he was obsessed with during high school, and he was obsessed with Combeferre for the mere fact that he was the only person he thought to be on the same level with - and, furthermore, his only friend. And, obviously, the object of his first intimate exploits had to defend the reason of Enjolras' latest breakdown.

Combeferre sighed. "I didn't say anything. I was out there with you, if you haven't noticed."

Enjolras nodded, promptly escaping from his friend's comforting hands.

"Yeah, but I know you think it was a terrible idea. And you came along anyway. Why? To join Grantaire in his 'I told you so' bullshit?"

He couldn't deny that he was testing his best friend's patience, but the alcohol blurred his senses and he didn't know whether he was going to cross the ultimate limit anytime soon.

"Jesus Christ," Combeferre exhaled, then he got up from his chair and closed the kitchen's door. The music seemed to have changed to reggae.

"You know very well that I agree with you that those nazi scum shouldn't even have the right to be alive, let alone to protest for some football player who got disqualified for racist slurs, but we shouldn't try to pick fights with legitimately dangerous people, period."

Enjolras looked almost apologetic.

"And, if I may add, to do the 'I told you so' bullshit it's required to have, in fact, told something in advance - which I didn't - so there you go. Sharing an opinion with Grantaire doesn't mean I'm not with you on this."

It didn't, of course. He nodded to assure his friend that he understood, to promise that nothing similar was going to happen in the future, but he couldn't muster any sincere feeling about that.

 

When they both returned in the living room Enjolras noticed that Courfeyrac was the only one (half-asleep) left. Joly was already in his pajama pants and his laptop open on the couch, looking disheveled enough to be tired, but not enough not to check his Facebook page first. They already knew that Feuilly went to bed anyway (his apartment was basically on the other side of Paris) and Bahorel probably followed his lead. 

"Where did Grantaire and Jehan go?" asked Combeferre. They didn't discuss returning home together, but it wouldn't have been a problem, since they always ended up all cramped up together inside Combeferre's Volvo. Courfeyrac yawned loudly and raised from the couch.

"They went home. Together. Granted that I wasn't hallucinating there, I'm pretty sure they're fucking."

Joly laughed, his face half lightened up by his laptop screen.

"As if Jehan usually makes a mystery of it."

"No, I think they have, like, something real going on."

Combeferre raised an eyebrow. "Are you jealous?"

"Qui? Moi? Quite the contrary, I'm happy for Grantaire," he glanced over to Enjolras, who caught his eyes almost instantly, "the kid needs some loving."

Was that directed to him?

Enjolras glanced over Combeferre, looking desperately for an explanation, but his best friend's eyes, still sticking on Courfeyrac, were severe and rather pensive.

"I think it's time to leave," said his friend in the end. Joly looked up from his laptop.

"Thank you guys - also on Bahorel's behalf. See you guys tomorrow at Le Musain?"

Enjolras shook his head. "I don't know yet. I think I'll be at le 59 Rivoli with Bossuet and Feuilly, if he can get off work early. Some other guys from the squat got injuried today."

Their friend looked confused. "Don't you have classes? Aren't we going to Rivoli on Friday already?"

Enjolras snorted. "I have Statistics, which I don't really care for, since we all know how that knob-head of a teacher got the job-"

"Alright. Time to go." Combeferre caught both Enjolras and Courfeyrac's arms and directed them toward the door. "See you on Friday," he said then, waving his jacket to Joly before closing the door.

 

 

By the time they got to Combeferre's car, Courfeyrac was sleeping splashed against the window like a dog and his roommates were indulging in a weird silence.

Luckily enough, at 2 in the morning the streets were almost empty, so they could reach home in less than 15 minutes. Combeferre had the Bioethics class at 8.30 and he tried not to count the few hours of sleep he had left. 

"Do you think," started Enjolras as they reached the first traffic light, "that.. um, that Courf was talking about me when he mentioned Grantaire?"

Combeferre didn't aswer right away. He never did: he usually took some time to consider things before speaking, and that usually avoided him unnecessary fights, so common among their friends. He didn't want to hurt, but he certainly didn't want to get hurt himself either.

"I think Courfeyrac shouldn't speak when he's shitfaced drunk - or high, for that matter. He's convinced Grantaire has some sort of affair with Jehan."

"But he does."

Because, even if Enjolras couldn't bring himself to admit it out loud, the image of Jehan's slim fingers caressing Grantaire's dark jeans were burning through his brain. He didn't want to stare at them - and he certainly didn't - but the image somehow got stuck in his head, as if the two weren't even Jehan or Grantaire after all.

He felt a sudden wave of crashing antipathy towards the poet, who seemed to adore screwing half of their friends just to claim that love was the fuel that makes the world spin. It fucking wasn't.

And it wasn't just Jehan, but Courfeyrac and Eponine also. And Combeferre and his way of defending Grantaire against any kind of criticism. Everyone were getting under his skin that night and he didn’t know why.

"I can't believe you're even listening to the bullshit Courf says. He's the same guy who still hasn't realized that Jehan has this massive crush on him."

They hoped to park around Rue Mouffetard so that they didn't have to walk much, but it was extremely hard finding any parking space in the center of Paris, so they had to leave the car in front of the chemist's, two blocks away.

"On Courfeyrac?" Enjolras didn't like discussing his friends' love life, since he couldn't understand any of it. Combeferre waited for Enjolras to lift a sound asleep Courfeyrac from their car before locking it.

"Then why was he all over Grantaire tonight?" asked the blonde with vain attempts to wake up his - incredibly heavy - roommate.

The other boy  gave one last check to the car and helped Enjolras carrying their friend along the street.

"I think it's his last resource: jealousy. However, Courf is anything but territorial, so I don't know what Jehan is hoping for."

Enjolras could see where Combeferre was coming from: they were openly discussing Courfeyrac's love life and the guy didn't even bother to focus and listen.

 

Hell, he couldn't even stay awake.

 

"Hey Courf, we're almost home, but I need you to walk on your feet or I'm leaving you on the fucking curb."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok - in my own modern headcanon Enjolras is a major in Political Science and International Relations. Thank god nowadays you can choose other degrees other than Law!  
> Also, Combeferre is a Philosophy student (though he previously studied medicine).
> 
> Le 59 Rivoli I've mentioned in the story is a real existing squat place in the heart of Paris. I can't imagine a modern setting for les amis without them hanging around there. :)
> 
> The title is from the Vive la Fête most famous song, Noir Désir (the Noir Désir mentioned earlier in the story is a band though).


End file.
